


Squeeze

by Taste_of_Suburbia



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftercare, Altered Mental States, Body Modification, Consensual Violence, Electrocution, F/M, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Blood Kink, Oaths & Vows, Obsessive Behavior, Physical Abuse, Pining, Psychopaths In Love, Restraints, Romance, Torture, Transformation, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, h/c_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_of_Suburbia/pseuds/Taste_of_Suburbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harley has to learn to adjust to the vicissitudes of Joker’s beautiful wickedness; there’s no way she’s straying from the course now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for h/c_bingo Round 7 for the prompt ‘Electrocution.’ 
> 
> Warning that this is more hurt than comfort, but I think this form of the Joker would have his own twisted form of aftercare. 
> 
> **Soundtrack:** Chevelle’s ‘Joyride (Omen)’

 

_~Late night, this heart needs pumping_

_Joy, ride and famous lies_

_Angel eyes, gotta feed, taking aim, none of these_

_Pull right out_

_Didn_ _’t lie, didn’t like, none of these_

_New revenge, odd events, catching Hell, evidence_

_Chase you down~_

* * *

 

There are few things more beautiful than her J, staring down at her with bright, angel eyes and a monstrous, all pretty, shiny teeth smile that make Harley quiver in all the right places. If she weren’t tied down with restraints she would be too weak under these harsh lights, too vulnerable under his fixated attention on her to move an inch. She’s right where she needs to be, right where she should be. Right where she belongs.

_I can take it, Mista J. I can take it all._

Maybe if she’s lucky she’ll feel his cold hands on her, caressing down the length of her just before he gets to work on the mess that was Harleen Quinzel. Making her special. Making her more than she ever thought she could be.

“Make me like you, Mista J. Make me pretty like you. I can take it.” It’s all she manages to say, yet she _does_ want him to know how strong she is. How she won’t fumble or break under his deliciously sweet techniques. However long, however much it hurts… it will make her more _her._

And then there’s that deep, husky voice that makes her tremble as much as she’s able in anticipation; it’s a welcome alternative to fear. “I know you can, Harls. My perfect girl. You are a _vision_ to me.”

She giggles then, a pleasant tickle in her chest that turns into a soft rumbling in the bottom of her throat. It exits without thought, echoes around the room as she watches him adjust the restraints and prepare the various instruments on the metal table to her right, hardly taking his eyes off her throughout his preparation. Harley has no interest in what he’s doing, only on _him_ , only on making sure that he’ll always be here, that it will be his hands holding the tools, _her_ blood under _his_ flawless fingernails. That’s what excites her too: the fact that she’s become _his_ center of attention.

And she can scarcely take her eyes off him either.

Never has she felt a love - an obsession - this strong; never has she wanted to do anything imaginable to be the center of his world. And maybe if he makes her how he likes her, maybe if she’s a good girl and doesn’t scream too loudly or squirm too much… maybe he’ll never want to let her go.

His hand grips her jaw and she wants to smile but can’t quite move her lips enough to do so. Still, he grins - a bright, nearly blinding sparkle under the lights - down at her, as if knowing how she feels inside. She suspected from the first moment she met him that he _knew_ her, just the her that wasn’t her yet, just the one only he could coax out of her. She had full confidence in him, and oddly enough full confidence in herself too: to be what he needed.

“Oh, Harley-kins,” he murmurs. It’s just one of those half-dozen or so deliriously perfect nicknames he’s seen fit to give her, but this one and the way he says it now, like blood _soaked_ velvet sliding across his tongue, makes her nearly arch off the table. Another hand unbuttons her starched white shirt, too confining since she’s been strapped down to this table, only five minutes now and she could go five hours, five days if he _needed_ it. If it made him feel _good._

His eyes never leave her, which is good because Harley feels like she’d die if they did. She wants to ask him… wants to make sure he’ll be here; there’s no doubt in her mind he will be as his thumb and index finger slip in between her cracked lips, stretching her mouth until she can finally smile. She sighs and relaxes and in reward he crawls on top of her, knee pressed hard between her legs like he’s trying to paralyze her, breath cold against her eyelashes. His fingernails tap impatiently against her chest, as if impatient to break through skin and then the bones of her ribcage to take what’s his already. 

It’s almost too much for one little girl like her to bear.

“My heart is pounding a hundred times a minute, Mista J.” His hand grips her face harder, nail of his thumb puncturing her cheek and she wishes she could see what that looks like. Then again, she wants a mirror to be brought to her at the very end, so she doesn’t need to pull out, tuck in more, push further into, fix up better. So her smile isn’t lacking.

Her J gazes down at her in awe before slurping up the drop of blood on his thumb, slurping _her_ up, giving at least that part of her ample attention. “Then let me squeeze….” He breathes heavily, as if unable to handle the beauty of what she will become. Her own heart stutters in her chest as if begging for his long, slim fingers to wrap around it. Why can’t he be inside her now, even if she’s not pretty enough yet?

“Will I be enough for you…?” It must have been that lingering fear that caused her to voice her petty insecurities; she knows he doesn’t like them, won’t blame him because it’s just another part of her needs fixin.’

“You will be. That is my vow.”

The lights flicker and he fades for the small space of a second, yet Harley no longer fears because she can feel him here, not his flesh against her own but the even pace and heavy beat of his heart, the way he fills up a room. She could always feel him.

When she can see him again, there is a defibrillator gripped in each of his milky white, blood-spattered hands. Her eyelashes flutter as his hand cups her cheek, heartbeat stuttering delicately again as one of those thingies she just forgot the name of presses against her waist.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he warns her and she does, with no thought. It’s as if his voice can make her do anything instantly. “It will make you _feel._ _”_

And _oh,_ does she want to _feel._ Every inch he’ll allow her to.

She gasps, back only pressing her lightly to attempt to arch as the first flow of electric current sets her body alight, liquid fire swimming through her veins and every ounce of it feels like an ounce of _him,_ now inside her just as she wanted it. No more waiting. The second time she screams, though she can see Mista J smile gloriously through the darkness of her closed eyes as it cuts off in a laugh because it _hurts_ but it hurts _so good_ , exactly how she wanted it to. And she’s taking it too, taking it all for him, showing how worthy she is, just how beautiful she can be. 

And Harley can feel his happiness, his joy, can feel his own excitement pulsating along with her own as a loud bang and a sharp clatter mark a much-deserved break. Not that she needs a break as impatient as she is, but her J knows best. She keeps her eyes shut tight until he tells her otherwise, and she suspects being able to see would be too much of a shock to her over-sensitized system, prohibiting her from feeling everything she needs to feel.

J’s fingernails pierce through the skin of her own; his hands wrap around hers and pull her arms _up up up_ until they wrap around his neck. He yanks her upright without warning, though allows her to adjust and gently pulls her into his bare chest, fingernails gripping her sore waist and belly so tightly it’s almost too much sensation, so much pain and pleasure mixed all into one, so much _goodness_. After immeasurable moments of this, the chilled pads of his fingers lightly trace the worst areas of her chest, not too much pressure but just enough. She smiles, the lipstick he earlier applied to her lips cracking at the parts where it stretches to her cheeks.  Her new favorite shade of red.

“Puddin,’” she gasps. He grabs a handful of her hair and tugs until he can bite her throat and then kiss her, paint her tongue with her own blood. It tastes so good, and mixed with him it tastes like they belong, entwined, One. “Puddin,’” she warns him when his mouth pulls away from hers, “never _leave_ me.”

**FIN**


End file.
